


a comfort all on its own

by alphaofallcats



Series: the one where the Kents basically adopt Jason [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Some angst, luckily jon is there to give him one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 05:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphaofallcats/pseuds/alphaofallcats
Summary: “You’re inviting me. To dinner. In Smallville.”“It’s an open invitation,” Clark says. “Any night you want.”In which the Kents help Jason feel a little bit of love, ft. the best cinnamon roll Jon.





	a comfort all on its own

**Author's Note:**

> so I'm really late to Jason's birthday but I'm hoping I get a pass because I only joined the fandom a week and a half before it, so...
> 
> I wrote this because I really want to give Jason a hug. That's basically it.

It starts with Jon telling Clark and Lois that Damian was being crankier than usual.

Clark’s hand stills, fork hovering over his plate. There’s something disconcerting about Jon’s frown, how the boy struggles to twirl the spaghetti around his own fork.

“Do you know why?” he asks.

“I think,” Jon says, voice small, “it’s because Damian said Batman and Red Hood got in a big fight again.”

_Again._

A foot nudges Clark’s under the table, and Clark gazes away from his son to share a look with Lois. It isn’t the first time they heard about Bruce’s… difficulties. Clark knows his circumstances are largely different from Bruce’s, and that they have different parenting styles, but that doesn’t stop Clark from internally cringing at the stories. Bruce is a good father, he knows that, and Clark is the first to defend the man if anyone says otherwise. But...

It’s obvious that something is wrong between Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd, something that’s been dragging on and building for far too long, and no one is addressing it. There’s just only so many times Clark can see his friend exhausted with the weight of his personal life, and hear the stories about Jason lashing out from too many raw emotions.

“I’m sure it’ll be okay,” Lois says, if only to comfort Jon. “Eventually it will sort itself out.”

Clark shoves his worries aside and smiles in agreement, leaning over to ruffle Jon’s hair. “Don’t worry, Jonno, Damian will be back to his normal cranky self in no time.”

But Jason… Clark isn’t sure about Jason.

For the moment, however, Jon seems placated. The boy nods, then stares back down at his plate of pasta with determination as he attempts to twirl the spaghetti again.

\- - - -

The thought plagues Clark all night.

He knows about Jason’s past, how his real parents treated him, how Bruce found him, and how Joker— Then coming back, how confusing the world must have been for him, to be in the shadow of another Robin, the only memory of his life locked in a display case in the Batcave. To feel outcasted by his only family.

Does Jason still consider the Bats his family?

At breakfast, he tells Lois, “The kid is probably lost.” 

Sliding a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, she asks, “Damian?”

“No, no.” He’s not sure why his throat is so dry all of a sudden; he blames it on his restless sleep, taking a sip of orange juice before continuing. “Jason. With all that’s happened and what’s going on—”

Lois gently kisses his temple.

“Clark,” she says, “If it’s bothering you this much, go do something about it.”

“But is it my place to intrude?”

With a knowing smile, she lightly pats his cheek. “I can’t think of a time when Superman has ever hesitated to save someone.”

“You’re right,” he sighs. “You are right.”

“Of course I am,” she says smugly, and Clark is reminded just how much he loves her.

\- - - -

He brings Superboy, because he doesn’t actually know Red Hood’s weakness. But if the youngest Wayne is even vulnerable to his son’s puppy-dog eyes, Red Hood is sure to be.

Far out of Batman’s patrol territory, they’re standing on a rooftop of an old warehouse along the outskirts of Gotham. It’s wide, open to the hazy sky that makes Jon’s nose scrunch. Clark feels almost awkward, but it’s easy to ignore, not being able to see Jason’s face hidden under his helmet.

“You’re inviting me. To dinner. In Smallville.”

“It’s an open invitation,” Clark says. “Any night you want.”

“Please!” Jon is nearly vibrating with excitement, so Clark places a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. It works, but only a little. “You can meet my dog!”

“Uh,” Jason crosses and uncrosses his arm, then crosses them again. “Friday, I don’t have plans.”

That seems to be all he has to say on the matter, because he turns and starts walking away, uncrossing his arms again to clench his hands into fists at his sides.

A thought crosses Clark’s mind, so he calls out to the Red Hood, who’s already halfway across the rooftop. 

“Red.” Jason pivots on his heels, stock still once he looks in Clark’s direction. “If something comes up, or you change your mind, it’s okay. No hard feelings.”

It is a good thing to say. Some tension eases from Jason’s shoulders, and he gives a slight nod of acknowledgment before pulling out his grappling gun and taking off.

\- - - -

“Do you think he’ll come?” Clark asks, hands bubbling with soapy water as he washes the dishes.

Lois slides up behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder.

“You’re asking the wrong question,” she says. 

He places a plate on the drying rack and turns in her arms to look at her. “What should I be asking?”

“Whether he thinks he needs to come out of obligation, or whether he wants to come for himself.”

“Lois,” he says, staring down at her in admiration. “Is there anything you’re not right about?”

She laughs. “No, definitely not.”

\- - - -

Jason wants to melt, wishes that Clark would take his glasses off and fry him with his heat vision. Or whatever that power is called. He doesn’t remember, doesn’t hang out with Supers enough to bother to remember.

“Hello, Jason,” Clark grins, crooked and goofy and wide in a way that only a dad can achieve. “Come on in.”

The kitchen is small and homey and Jason feels out of place. Intruding. His mere presence dirtying everything. He wants to bolt, jog right out the front door and race away on his bike.

Instead, he holds out a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. “Google said this is what guests bring. To dinner. I wasn’t exactly sure—”

“You didn’t have to,” Lois says, but she places the bottle on the counter and takes the bouquet, unwrapping the cellophane and placing the flowers in a tall mason jar. 

“They’re beautiful,” she says, smiling in a way that makes him shove his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Thank you, Jason.”

Her voice is so _genuine_. Makes him queasy. Jason digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands, biting against his skin. He can make himself bleed if he wants to, thinks about it just to distract himself. Distract himself from all –– in his mind, he waves vaguely –– all _this_.

The floorboards creak as Jon sprints down the hall, socked feet pounding against the weathered wood. The plumbing pipes grind when Lois turns the faucet on. The legs on the chair groans when Clark sits down and the table wobbles when he rests his arms against the surface.

God, it’s just. It’s just––

Pain is an old friend of Jason’s, a familiar tightness in his chest. A comfort he can rely on. That he does rely on. That he feeds with anxiety and hate and grudges. Because, fuck, what is the Red Hood without pain? What is _he_ without pain?

But the manor never feels warm no matter how much Bruce runs the heat in the winter, not in the way this house is, alive, noisy and broken in all the good ways.

But Dick, Tim, and Damian have never purposely bumped into him the way Jon does, knocking against his back, throwing his arms around Jason like he had been waiting, fucking excited to see him _all day_. 

But Bruce — Alfred even, not since he came back at least — never smile at him the way Clark and Lois are, easy and welcoming. Relaxed. No edge. No trepidation that Jason is going to explode, or start trouble, or fuck something up.

So the feeling, the breathtaking _happiness_ radiating from the Kents, the house, is clawing at the pain, ripping it from his ribs and sinking into his heart, leaving Jason vulnerable. Vulnerable because it scratches the itch his pain has always carried.

And that’s a comfort all on its own.

\- - - -

“You came!” Jon says, circling around Jason to look up at him, all wonder and wide-eyed awe, like he expected Jason to not show up. Or was scared that he wouldn’t and is relieved.

Jason curls his fingers tighter into his palms, head spinning for a second because, well, he didn’t think he’d come either. 

At a loss, Jason feels awkward, not knowing what to do in these situations. He towers over Jon, but Jon’s confidence surpasses Jason’s own. By a lot.

“You kinda promised me I could meet Krypto,” he says eventually.

Jon’s cheeks puff up when he grins, eyes crystal bright and so goddamn happy. It’s like he’s practically radiating sunshine.

“Come on, come on! We just let him out back,” Jon says, twirling around to bounce to the back door.

Jason follows him, uncurling his fingers and pulling his hands from his pockets to catch the screen door before it rattles shut.

\- - - -

It’s a scary thought, but Lois’ handmade mini-pizzas might rival Alfred’s. What’s scarier is that Jason can’t figure out why he doesn’t care. He used to jump to Alfred’s defense all the time. The man hasn’t done anything wrong either, not in Jason’s book, but sitting in the Kents’ kitchen makes him forget about the manor.

He and Clark both have their arms carefully positioned on the tabletop, having found an unspoken way to balance the weight so it stops wobbling. Lois is chiding Jon for sneaking bits of crust down to Krypto, and Jason doesn’t exactly smile but the emotion is there.

It’s all so domestic. So informal and carefree, not like the family dinners he used to go to— No. He won’t call them family dinners. Not with how stiff Bruce is, how snarky Tim tends to get, how Dick flourishes to keep Damian from throwing steak knives across the room. That’s not a family dinner.

This is. This is a family dinner. Jon telling them about his day at school, how he played kickball at recess and scored a home run, (“ _without_ using my super strength, Dad.”) Lois talking about upcoming projects for the reports and Clark being the one to fill her in on the office gossip.

When Lois turns and asks him about his day, he doesn’t exactly know how to feel.

Jason can’t meet her eyes. He clears his throat, looking at the chipped ceramic plate in front of him as he says, “Fine, mostly. Did some laundry. Got a few, um, _errands_ done. No complaints.”

No one says anything and Jason glances up to see Lois tapping Jon’s shoulder. “Go get it, hun.” 

Jon’s up from the table before Jason can blink, leaping up the stairs. Then he’s back down, all in jerky motion, one hand behind his back, the other pushing the bangs from his eyes, slightly out of breath, face flushed. 

“Close your eyes,” he says, and Jason does because this is Jon Kent. He already trusts the kid with his life, and _okay_ , Jason, where did _that_ come from? But before he can question it, Jon’s telling him to hold out his hands. 

Jon places something light in his palms, excitement barely contained in his voice when he exclaims, “Open your eyes!” 

Jason does. 

It’s small, no bigger than a shoe box, wrapped in newspaper with an envelope taped to the top. He’s confused for a moment, trying to read the sloppy letters written on the front and— oh. 

_Oh._

How could he forget? There is a card from Alfred sitting on the dresser in his apartment, but he had gotten that earlier in the week and decided to wait to open it. Which meant it slipped his mind, which ultimately meant no one even wished him a happy birthday at all that day to remind him, until now. 

(Not that he checked his phone. There is probably a voicemail from Kori, a few dorky texts from Roy, laden with emojis and a photo of an honorary cupcake. Something from Alfred.) 

Clark’s voice cuts through the static ringing in his ears, smooth and deep and gentle. “Happy Birthday, Jason.” 

It’s one of those moleskine notebooks, the cover smooth and black with an elastic band that wraps around the front. They usually sell for over twenty dollars and this one is brand new. Jason grips it tightly in his hands. 

Jon bounces on the balls of his feet. “Because you like reading! You can write your _own_ book now!” 

Fuck. Jason can’t find his voice, throat scratchy and pinched. He takes a moment to breathe, inhaling deeply and steadily to stop his hands from shaking. 

When he finally looks back at Jon, his mouth is twitched up in a crooked grin. “You know,” he says, voice sounding more confident than he feels, “you really are super.” 

Jon hugs him for the second time that night, and it’s the most honest, pure affection he’s received in months. 

\- - - - 

Jason helps Lois with the dishes while Clark sits down with Jon to finish his math homework for the weekend. 

He’s been flustered since Lois set down a pie and they sang an off-key rendition of Happy Birthday. 

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says, keeping his eyes on the sponge in his hand. 

He’s washing the tea mug Lois had handed him with a slice of pie earlier. The outside ceramic is faded with a family photo, looking like it had been a Christmas present bought from a mall kiosk a few years ago. He holds it carefully, being gentle with the sponge, scared it would break in his grip. 

She places a hand on his arm and he nearly jumps out of his skin. She squeezes it, sparring him from trying to catch her gaze. 

“We wanted to.” Before he can embarrass himself she adds, “I didn’t realize how dark it was. You should stay the night, the couch is old but I promise it’s comfortable.” 

The laugh that escapes Jason is startling. Only because it’s not forced, not condescending, not the cruel darkness that he directs at pathetic criminals he plans to put bullets in. It’s a real laugh. 

“I mostly work the night shift.” 

“Take the night off,” she says, in a tone that holds no room for argument but also still soft. “It’s your birthday.” 

He places the sponge on a soap dish and puts the mug on a towel to lay out to dry. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

\- - - - 

The plan is to slip out once the house had settled. He knows Clark would probably wake up from the noise, but his gut told him Clark would let him go. No questions. No judgment. 

However, the plan didn’t take into account that the couch really is comfortable. He is a little too big, has to curl up, and the throw blanket Lois gave him is soft, warmer than the sheets he has at his safehouse. 

He falls asleep without meaning too. 

\- - - - 

Something is pressing against his cheek and Jason has a death grip wrapped around someone’s wrist before his mind even fully wakes up. 

His eyes snap open and Jon is smiling at him, pulling his wrist from Jason’s grip without so much as a bat of an eye. 

“Mom made pancakes!” 

Pancakes. 

Right. _Right_ , he’s in the Kents’ house. _Fuck_ , that means he didn’t sneak out and spent the night on their couch and— 

Blinking at the room, he struggles to shift up and lean on his elbows. Jason doesn’t realize how tired he actually is until his mind fights sluggishly against exhaustion. He feels like he can sleep for days, wants to hide his face back in the pillow and pass out again. 

“What—” His voice is groggy and muddled from sleep, the threat of falling back asleep weighing heavy on his shoulders. “What time is it?” 

“Just after ten,” Clark says, peering down at him from the back of the couch. 

Guilt bubbles dangerously inside his chest and his mind is thrust sharply into awareness. “Sorry,” he says, the words foggy in his mouth. This isn’t good, he slept too long and overstayed his welcome. Shit. 

“Boys,” Lois appears in the archway of the living room. “Breakfast,” she says pointedly, and Jason knows he shouldn’t feel like he’s being scolded, but he does, like he’s a kid again in trouble with Alfred for trekking Gotham’s rainy sludge into the Manor. 

“I made tea,” she adds, smiling at Jason like he’s something special. 

Maybe, he thinks, as Jon tugs his arm to help him up (and Jason shouldn’t be surprised that there’s strength behind it) he is _something_. Not special, no, but he’s something more than. Well, more than the something he feels. 

\- - - - 

The sponge is back in his hand because he feels uncomfortable not helping. They cooked him dinner, a real meal not frozen store-bought garbage. Let him spend the night on the couch. Sleep in. Gave him a fucking birthday gift. 

“Thank you.” 

He’s been meaning to say it since last night. And he still feels awkward but can’t just— his head is spinning with thoughts of everything and it’s the only thing that feels right. 

Amidst the chaos swirling inside of him, he says it again. “Thank you.” 

Lois hums and smiles at him, knowingly and patiently, letting the words sit in the air between them. 

It’s enough to unfurl the knot in his chest. 

\- - - - 

Alfred always writes a lot on birthday cards, does it for all of them. Recounts a fond memory that always leads into a simple _to more memories to come, Happy Birthday._

The others didn’t sign it, but Jason thinks that’s for the better. 

However, all the Kents signed their card. Simple construction paper scribbled with crayon and marker and scratchy writing from Jon. Clark’s handwriting is surprisingly clear and Lois’ is smooth. Jon squeezed in _and Krypto_ at the bottom and it’s too much. Too much to not be adorable and he smiles just in the slightest as he tapes it on the inside cover of his new notebook. 

**Love,  
Clark, Lois, Jon and Krypto.**

**Author's Note:**

> this might become a series if I can get my shit together, who the fuck knows.


End file.
